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Copyright N^.. 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 



Of this book there have been printed in the month 
of December, 1913, three hundred and 
fifty copies on Van Gelder hand- 
made paper, of which 
this is. 

No ... 




^auonna Ui Campiglio 
OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 



ALSO 



BITS 



They rested there, escaped awhile 
From cares that wear the life away. 

Whittier 



^auonna Di Campiglio 



*^^ 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 



ALSO 



BITS 



BY 

FRANK R. LAWRENCE 
u 



NEW YORK 
PRIVATELY PRIxXTED 

MCMXIII 



ex 






Copyright, 1913, by 
Frank R. Lawrence 

A II rights reserved 



©CI.A36125 4 



FOR MY GRANDCHILDREN 

EVA 

DAVID 

JOSEPHINE 



INTRODUCTORY NOTE 

When the Dolomites are spoken of, the 
reference usually intended is to the re- 
gion of which Cortina may be said to be 
the centre, lying to the east of the railway 
which runs north and south from Inns- 
briick, through Botzen and Trient, to Ve- 
rona, and which is reached from the north 
by Innsbriick, or from the south by Venice 
and Belluno. 

Campiglio, and the places mentioned here, 
are west of the railway, and as yet are vis- 
ited by few English people and hardly any 
Americans. 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 




OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

YOUNG girl thought she saw the 
Virgin and Child descend at eve- 
ning and rest below the mountain 
at the head of the valley. Night after night 
the vision came, and she told the priests, 
and they watched with her and saw it, too; 
and this went on until they felt moved to 
build a monastery upon the spot. But the 
land was poor, the people were few, and 
the task was hard, till the angels came and 
helped in the work, which by that or other 
means was completed, as good works often 
are, it is not easy to say how. And the build- 
ing, in the midst of a beautiful solitude, 
was long a place of retreat for holy men. 
But at last great wars arose, the songs of 
praise were no longer heard among the 
hills, and the good monks were driven from 

[3] 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

their home, which now, by a curious change, 
has become a resting-place for strangers. 

Such is the legend of Madonna di Cam- 
piglio, gathered from the peasants who live 
near. 




HE place is in a high Tyrolean val- 
ley, five thousand feet above the 
sea, and entirely surrounded by 
mountains. The valley slopes gently toward 
the south. At the north it is sheltered by a 
ridge of Monte Nambino; at the right, as 
the south is faced, and near at hand, are 
hills covered with fir trees, beyond which 
appear some of the summits of the Presa- 
nella. At the left stands Monte Spinale, two 
thousand feet over the valley. Not far 
down, a tiny pond furnishes what Ruskin 
calls "the eye of the landscape," without 
which no landscape can be complete; and 
further to the south majestic Sabione rises, 
tranquil mountain of the middle distance, 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

beautifully verdant. Some peaks of the 
Brenta group appear at Sabione's left, 
touched here and there with snow, and com- 
plete the circle of the hills which shut out 
the world beyond. 

The valley, with a profusion of wild 
flowers, is clothed in a full and perfect 
green, the hills near by are made darker by 
the trees which cover their sides, and the 
verdure of the fields and the deeper color 
of the hills above blend in shades like rich- 
est velvet, soothing and full of repose. 

The changing colors can nowhere be 
more soft or beautiful, and an atmosphere 
exhilarating as champagne, and delicate as 
its rarest vintage, is the crowning glory 
of this delightful place. 

II 

OR a morning walk, take the Faulen- 
zer Weg (Lazy Way) a short dis- 
tance over a rising meadow, rich 
with wild crocuses and blue-bells, and bor- 




OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

dered with the Alpen rose, past the little 
pond which sparkles in the sunlight; then 
go, if you like, for miles along an almost 
level path, through pine woods whose fra- 
grance gives life, and whose trees trace 
alternate sun and shadow. 

You soon appear to have attained a con- 
siderable height; but you have not been 
ascending— the valley has fallen away. Ere 
very long a spot of white appears far in 
the west; it increases at every step, until 
presently there comes into full view the 
Lares Glacier, the great snow-field of the 
Adamello group, grand and gleaming in 
perpetual white. No matter how bright 
the day, almost always some cloud, large 
or small, rests upon the Adamello and dis- 
charges its snowy contents. Sometimes, 
after a strong wind, marks are left upon 
the snow, like enormous footprints, as 
though a giant had passed in the night, 
stepping from mountain to mountain. 

The valley at your feet is verdant; so 
are the intervening hills. But the snow on 

[63 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

the Adamello lends no harshness to the 
scene ; and you go on, and on, for the walk 
is neither long nor fatiguing, meeting every 
now and then pass-walkers with a cheerful 
"Morgen," or a peasant with a civil 
"Giorno" (for the South Tyrolean peasant 
will not admit a knowledge of German 
even when he has it) ; and as you seem to 
mount higher, but in reality do not, you 
view the increasing charms of the valley, 
which more and more unfold below, until 
as you turn a corner it is difficult to re- 
strain an exclamation. For in an instant 
there burst upon the sight the pinnacles of 
the Brenta Dolomites, in all their rugged 
glory. 

And here you rest, and well you may ! 
There is spread before you a view never 
to be forgotten, and rarely to be surpassed. 
Your coign of vantage is a seat bathed in 
sunshine. All about are woods of fragrant 
pine. The valley has now opened up for 
miles, showing verdant fields, clumps of 
trees, groups of grazing cows whose bells 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

you faintly hear, arid scattered houses of 
the peasants who keep the cattle; and the 
view terminates far, far away, in a little 
triangle of brightest green, where a low 
spur of Monte Sabione intervenes and pre- 
vents your seeing what lies further on. 

At the right, across the fertile valley, be- 
yond hills of green pine and gray stone, 
rises Adamello, in snowy purity. Just be- 
fore, and to the south, stands Sabione, like 
a great, deep emerald; and to the east, as 
far round as the eye can reach, are the 
peaks of the Brenta, forming a huge am- 
phitheatre, covered half-way up with pines, 
and, above the tree line, storm-swept gul- 
lies with patches of snow, and rocks torn 
by time and the wind into the fantastic 
shapes which characterize the Dolomites. 

Here have I sometimes sat in the full 
summer sunshine and watched a furious 
snowstorm on the Adamello or the Brenta. 
Yet the peaks and snow-fields, fine as they 
are, only assist; they do not dominate the 
scene. And upon a summer's day, it speaks 

[8] 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

to the beholder not of grandeur, but tran- 
quillity. The many shades of green, bright 
in the open spaces, mellow where the sun 
strikes the wooded hills directly, and 
darker where the trees are in shadow, com- 
bine and make a harmonious picture, set 
off and heightened by Adamello's snow and 
Brenta's gray rocks. 

Though much among the Dolomites, it 
has never been my fortune to behold the 
colors spoken of by many writers as being 
so vivid and splendid, especially at sunset; 
yet I ask for nothing finer than this. 

But the hotel is not yet two miles dis- 
tant; the path is easy, and as you continue 
your stroll, Brenta's beauties are more lav- 
ishly displayed, while those of Adamello 
become less distinct as the direction 
changes. The path, after being open for a 
short time, becomes more wooded; the sun- 
light grows less, the shadows deepen. You 
stop to drink from a little rill which trick- 
les from the hillside, coming from Monte 
Sabione, far above, and every now and 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

then the sense is delighted by the perfume 
of the pines. 

And now fresh music bursts upon the 
ear. Thus far you have listened to the 
wind among the trees, and the bells upon 
the distant cows; but now a deeper note is 
heard, and as you pause to rest again you 
obtain the first view, always fascinating, 
of a waterfall which bears a part of the 
snows of the Brenta to the stream which 
will carry them to the river, thence to be 
borne to the Adriatic, not so far away; 
perchance to be drawn upward arid precipi- 
tated again. And still you go on. The hills 
take different shapes at every step, and 
their beauty never lessens. The sound of 
the waterfall grows larger, richer, deeper; 
and as you approach it more nearly you 
rest again where a huge tree meets an 
overhanging rock, and a tablet commemo- 
rates the work of a gentleman. Dr. Eduard 
Pfeiffer, who has done much to make ac- 
cess easy to the beauties of this place. 

Now the path descends. As you approach 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

the waterfall the trees become more dense; 
and here, if you will, drinking in the music 
and the beauty of the surroundings, you 
may remain alone with your thoughts for 
uncounted hours, realizing the ideal of the 
poet, 

"To sit on rocks, to muse o'er flood and fell, 
To slowly trace the forest's shady scene." 

And if you like, and are oblivious of time, 
you may go right on to the waterfall, and 
to another, and still another, until you reach 
the green Kaiserin-Friedrich-Platz, far be- 
low; or at the Pfeiffer tablet, where sev- 
eral paths diverge, you may take the Bear's 
Path (Baren Weg), which leads above the 
waterfall, and go up and up, seeing each 
time you turn new tints of violet, purple 
and blue, not less fine than those seen by 
the imagination of Mrs. Browning in the 
woods of her Lady Geraldine; and pres- 
ently you reach the Malga (Milking 
House) Vallesinella di Sopra, a hut of gran- 
diose name. And as you go further, the 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

blue-bells become richer, the scenery grows 
more wild, the tinklings from the cows 
more distant, and the brooks of greater 
number; and it is only necessary to con- 
tinue to reach the Tuckett Hiitte, a refuge 
among the snows, named after one of the 
first Englishmen who explored these wilds. 
But there has been enough of loveliness 
for a morning, and you turn home. 



Ill 



o-DAY the hills do not stand out so 
clearly. There has been a change 
in the light. The sun is shining, 
but more softly, and there are shades upon 
Sabione and her companions, which do not 
lessen their beauty. 

For an afternoon walk, you take the west 
side of the valley, across the rich pasture, 
over a bridge at a little stream which is 
singing merrily, stopping to admire the 
crocus-strewn grass, the cattle grazing 




OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

contentedly, and the shadows down the 
valley, now almost gray, and now a deeper 
purple. 

You enter the path leading to the Pano- 
rama Way, walking amid the pines, through 
places sometimes dark and solemn, at others 
bright enough to admit the full sunlight, by 
a small moraine or two, and over a narrow 
causeway, where cows seem to dispute the 
passage, but amiably yield the way. And 
so you go along the pleasant open path, 
passing a little restaurant, very primitive 
in appearance, but where in the afternoon 
a comely fraillein dispenses tea and coffee 
which would do credit to many a grand 
establishment. 

The path rises, and you look across the 
valley to the scene of yesterday. Now the 
hills are seen from the opposite side. The 
Adamello is for the present out of sight. 
The light falls differently upon the Brenta.. 
Its snow now seems gray, its rocks a deeper 
gray. Sabione, usually bright, appears sub- 
dued, and every now and then, as a cloud 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

passes before the sun, a veil of richest pur- 
ple is thrown across the scene. 

The way leads through more woods, by 
waterfalls and amid sensuous pines. From 
this side of the valley you see further into 
the Brenta amphitheatre. If the day were 
dark, its towers and battlements would 
stand against the sky, terrible and grim; 
but now all is bathed in a flood of softest 
light; gray— oh, such mellow, lucent gray; 
changing sometimes imperceptibly into other 
hues. The valley traversed yesterday is 
visible from this hillside. As you ascend, 
or rather as the land appears to fall away, 
the view becomes more and more extended. 
The Kaiserin-Friedrich-Platz comes into 
sight, a spot of brilliant green. The little 
triangle which closed the prospect yester- 
day is larger, and by going on you see be- 
yond it toward the villages of Carisolo and 
Pinzolo. 

Passing a little half perpendicular field, 
where an entire family, men, women and 
children, are industriously reaping a small 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

crop of grain, you leave the main path and 
go up a hill toward the Malga Milana, and 
lie down upon the soft grass amid the ferns 
and flowers, tiny white and yellow stars, 
blue-bells and purple heather, to rest and 
listen to the music of a little waterfall at 
your side;— such a busy little waterfall, 
rushing and bustling, with not a moment 
to lose, on its way to the valley, just as 
convinced as men are that all the world 
depends upon its reaching its goal without 
delay, and, again like men, only to be lost 
and swallowed up as the goal is reached. 

And you lie so long and so quietly that 
at last it comes almost as a surprise to look 
up and find the magnificent sweep of moun- 
tains still in view. But there they are, 
Brenta and Sabione— and Adamello, which 
has again come into sight, and great white 
cloud masses sail lazily overhead, and in 
spite of the pure blue sky beyond, snow 
seems to be falling on some of Brenta's 
domes. 




OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 



IV 



FEW miles down the valley, in the 
shadow of one of the mountains 
of the Adamello group or range, 
lies the village of Pinzolo. It has lately 
been almost destroyed by fire. Its humble 
inhabitants possessed next to nothing, but 
in a moment there was taken from them 
that which they had. 

A short quarter of a mile outside the 
village stands the small church of St. 
Vigilio, and three or four hundred years 
ago something led an artist, now unknown, 
to paint upon its wall a representation of 
a "Todtentanz," a favorite subject at that 
period. 

No matter what stirring events have been 
transpiring in the outer world, what wars 
have raged, what kings have conquered or 
what dynasties have fallen; during all the 
time, for nearly four hundred years, noth- 
ing has ever disturbed this little spot, nor 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

has the grim figure upon the wall of this 
small church ever ceased for a day to lead 
forth in turn a pope, a bishop, a priest, a 
king, a soldier, a lady, a young maiden or 
a little child, one by one, into the wild 
mazes of the Dance of Death, while all the 
time the skeleton players played ghostly 
music ! 

And there the painting stands to-day. It 
has been but little damaged by time, and is 
likely to last for centuries to come, while 
history goes on, with its continuous repe- 
tition. 




SHORT two miles above Campi- 
glio lies the Campo Carlo Magno 
(Field of Charles the Great). 
The ascent by the main highway is easy, 
and is dotted every few feet by the square 
posts of stone which mark the military 
roads in this and neighboring countries 
for hundreds— indeed, thousands— of miles. 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

The new hotel looks out upon the large 
undulating plain, entirely different from 
any other space for very many miles, 
which, with a few small intervening ridges, 
extends to the foot of the Brenta group, 
which here attains a height of eight or nine 
thousand feet. The mountains rise almost 
perpendicularly; they are bald, bare, deso- 
late; real Dolomites, composed of lime and 
magnesium, such as must have delighted 
the heart of M. Dolomieu, if he ever saw 
these particular specimens of the hills to 
which he gave his name. The scene, 
though bleak, usually gains life from a 
large herd of cows, either grazing, or com- 
ing to drink at the little pond in the middle 
of the plain. At Campiglio, the tone is one 
of pastoral quiet; here it is one of gran- 
deur. 

Did the Emperor Charlemagne, a thou- 
sand years ago, as the legend tells, encamp 
an army on this spot? If not, whence the 
name by which the place seems to have 
been known from immemorial time? We 

D83 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

know that Charles assumed the Lordship 
of the Mountain Land, as this country was 
then called, for the name "Tyrol" had not 
then come into use; and the place seems 
admirably suited for a military camp. 
Seated here, you may try to imagine a 
feudal encampment of the early middle 
ages,— the archaic weapons and costumes, 
horses gaily caparisoned and mail-pro- 
tected, bowmen and spearmen, knights and 
nobles in richest armor, and Charles him- 
self in regal splendor on his way over the 
Alps into Italy. And may not the incom- 
parable knight, Roland, the Paladin, just 
from the side of the beauteous Hildegunde, 
have been here among the host? Who 
knows ? 

But whatever of military pageantry 
Brenta's rocks may for one brief moment 
have beheld, to-day they smile or frown, as 
sun is succeeded by shade, upon a scene 
solitary, grand, severe. 

Assuredly this was in former times, as 
it is now, one of the passes leading into 



OUR T.ADY (W TIIF. l-TT'.LDS 

Italy, to 'I'inino, to Brescia, to Milan. To 
(ho non-military observer it would seem to 
have been easier to pursue the compara- 
tively level road now followed by the rail- 
way, down by the beautiful Lake of Garda, 
and so on to the great Lombardy plain, by 
Verona, than to transport an army over 
these mountains. But when this is sug- 
gested to those whose opinion carries 
weight, they reply that in olden days the 
plains were diflicult to pass because of 
morasses and floods, while the castles of 
the nobles upon the lower hills were nu- 
merous enough and strong enough to im- 
pede even a powerful army. 



VI 



ROM the Campo Carlo Magno many 
^ r^TNv^ paths lead in as many directions. 
IsTi^^^kX \n half an hour you may be far 
away in woods so deep as almost to cause a 




OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

shiver. In another half hour you may be 
well up toward Brenta's bare rocks and 
patches of snow. 

A delightful path, nearly level, is the 
Marcella Sembrich Way, named after the 
charming singer, said to be a native of 
Tyrol. Upon the Sembrich Way you seem 
almost at the base of the Brenta, though 
it is really a mile or two distant. In an 
open glade along this path is found a va- 
riety of great thistle, extremely rare. The 
flowers are of unusual size, sumptuous in 
purple and gray, lolling indolently in all 
sorts of attitudes, all about the lovely glade, 
secure in the right of possession, and con- 
fident of being undisturbed. 

The path along the Sembrich Way grows 
more wild and romantic. It leads past 
rushing streams and little cascades, and 
ascends to the Malga Malghetto di Sotto, 
where from an elevated plateau there is a 
truly noble view of the Brenta Dolomites, 
perhaps more extensive than any yet seen. 

The cowherd here, a rather spiritless fel- 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

low, inveighing against his compulsory ser- 
vice in the army, and living, free from care, 
in the most exhilarating atmosphere and 
with the most delightful prospect always 
spread before him, is yet unhappy in his 
lot. Curiously enough, with cows on every 
side, he had no milk; yet over his rough 
but excellent coffee we sat for an hour and 
discussed the woes of humanity and the 
wrongs perpetrated by kings. Our lan- 
guage, or rather his language, for our dia- 
logue was mainly a monologue, consisted 
of much Italian, with a little German, even 
a trifle of English, and many crude but ex- 
pressive signs upon both sides, sufficiently 
indicative of mutual sympathy. 

Another half hour over a good but stony 
path brings into sight the lovely little Mal- 
ghetto See, truly a beautiful solitude. Its 
surface, unruffled by any wind, is sur- 
rounded by mountains on every side except 
the east, and there, at the only opening, is 
a fine view of the Brenta group, including 
some peaks of what seems like red sand- 



'^ 


i 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

stone, in contrast to the gray tones of the 
rest of the Brenta formation. 

At the outlet of the lake, a little cascade 
as usual sings its way along, and this and 
the bells upon the distant cows are the only 
sounds. 



VII 



N this country every little pool is 
called a "See," which seems odd 
until the ear becomes accustomed 
to the term. 

The Nambino See is two miles or so 
northwest from Campiglio, and a little fur- 
ther from the Campo. If you go the latter 
way, a fine view of Campiglio and the val- 
ley in which it lies soon tempts you to rest 
and admire; and whichever way you take, 
the path lies, for most of the distance, 
through beautiful pine woods. After a 
time you approach the lake, and are greeted 
as usual by the pleasant sound of falling 
water. The lake, a little basin, is entirely 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

shut in by hills, like many another moun- 
tain pool near by. The scene has become 
wild, weird, forbidding; and when the day 
is cloudy, especially if you are alone and 
with night coming on, you may conjure up 
all manner of unearthly things. 

So strange and spectral do the trees and 
rocks appear in the dim light that you may 
imagine yourself 

". . . down by the dank tarn of Auber 
In the ghoul-haunted woodland of Weir." 

And you are glad to escape from the deep 
woods and go back to Campiglio by another 
path, the steep Molfetta Way, and the Hed- 
wig Way, again through odorous pines, 
again by rippling waters, along the bank of 
a delightful stream and passing near the 
Malga (Milking House) Nambino. The 
word "Malga," until one grows familiar 
with its use, seems rather to carry a sinis- 
ter sound than to indicate the homely pur- 
pose for which the place is meant. 




OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 



VIII 

Hus far all the walks have been 
mere easy strolls. But some radi- 
ant morning, after a storm has 
cleared the air, off we go to one of the 
higher levels, perhaps on foot, perhaps upon 
a stalwart mule or a little mountain horse, 
scarcely larger than a full-sized sheep; per- 
haps up Monte Spinale, just at the east of 
the hotel, where an hour's journey leads to 
a broad level space upon this mountain 
mass, which commands a fine prospect of 
•the Brenta and the Care Alto, and where 
the edelweiss still grows in abundance. 

But if more ambitiously inclined, let the 
start be made, say, for the Groste Pass. 
The road leads over Carlo Magno, into and 
through the deep, beautiful woods ; the path 
goes up, never steep or difficult, but always 
up and up. Presently the summits of the 
Ortler group appear, highest of all Tyro- 
lean mountains, brilliant with snow; a little 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

later, the Care Alto and all the Adamello 
field; and as we stop to rest, a mile or two 
before reaching the summit, these, with 
the Presanella and the Brenta peaks, make 
a crown of glory, a snow-tipped diadem 
glittering all around the horizon. 

As we ascend, the woods cease, the rocks 
are bare, breathing grows less easy, and it 
is well to keep on the hither side of Baed- 
eker's time-honored rule— not more than 
sixty steps to the minute. 

At the summit, at the Rifugio Stoppani, 
the little house, or hutte, maintained by the 
Alpine Club of Trient, the view, because 
of some rocks near at hand, is not quite as 
extensive as at some distance below. Here 
dwells a little family, in solitary grandeur, 
and we dine healthfully, but frugally. The 
air creates a wondrous appetite ; and it is as 
the man said— "Nothing tastes so good as 
what you eat yourself." 

Now the distant mountains have lost the 
circular aspect, and all save Brenta appear 
as though nearly in a straight line, with 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

snow upon their summits, and below the 
snow-line all manner of soft tones, purple 
and varying shades of green, nearly black 
over some of the forest growths, and bright 
in the valleys, where sometimes there are 
little fields. 

At the Refuge Hiitte we are almost un- 
der one of the peaks of the Mondifra, a 
part of the Brenta group, destitute of snow, 
but worn and driven by the wind into all 
manner of shapes; and then, after a twenty 
minutes' further climb over rocks of flint, 
but with little blue stars of flowers forcing 
their way through the smallest crevices, we 
sit under the signal-staff at the summit of 
the Groste Pass, more than eight thousand 
feet above the sea. 

The view again expands into a circle, a 
little broken by two or three jagged peaks 
close by. But it is infinitely more grand 
and magnificent than before ; for here we 
see, not only Adamello and Presanella, 
comparatively near, and the Ortler group 
as well, but far away to the north and east, 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

beyond intervening valleys and villages and 
lesser ranges of hills, there rise the Stu- 
baier group and the Gross Venediger; even 
the Gross Glockner lifts its graceful, snowy 
summit into the sky many, many miles 
away; and Monte Antelao appears, like a 
great irregular cloud, far off near Cortina, 
keeping watch and ward over the marvelous 
Ampezzo Thai, and in the midst of the bet- 
ter known and more frequently visited Dol- 
omitic formations. 

Having seen all this upon a rare and 
glorious day, with not a cloud in the sky, 
we turn and slowly retrace our steps, 
satiated with so much splendor, and feeling 
it a relief to come again within Campiglio's 
homelike influence. 



IX 

HE little balcony from which these 
lines are written looks down the 
lovely valley and commands a 
view of all its restful beauty. 




OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

The sun sets early here, passing behind 
the hills in the west. Soon come the even- 
ing shades; and sometimes at Campiglio, 
when the night is fine, the stars stand out 
so clearly that you almost seem able to see 
around and behind them, and into the 
firmament beyond. 

On an August evening there is the giant 
Jupiter at the south, dominating the valley; 
overhead, the not less brilliant Vega, with 
her companions of the Lyre. Great Arctu- 
rus and the lovely star-field of Berenice are 
"sloping slowly to the west"; the North 
Star is pointed to, as in American skies, and 
all the old marvels are just where we are 
accustomed to see them. 

Soon after midnight Fomalhaut takes the 
place of Jupiter down the valley; and as 
the night begins to wane, the gentle Plei- 
ades appear over Brenta's peaks, followed 
by Aldebaran in splendid glory, and Orion's 
magnificent train, and later lovely Venus 
comes to tell you that the dawn is near. 

Night after night the wonderful proces- 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

sion passes, here as elsewhere, as it has 
done for countless, unnumbered centuries, 
yet not one person in a thousand takes the 
time to regard it, or gives it more than a 
moment's thought. 

One night, at least, I lay in the valley, 
beyond the glare of the hotel's electric 
lights, wrapped in rug and Austrian loden 
coat, watching the marvelous spectacle, 
assisted by a chart of the skies and little 
electric torch, until, long before the morn- 
ing, 

"the soft veil of dreams 
Round Truth poetic, witching Fancies 
wreathed." 

Slumber overcame me, and I went in some 
time after daylight, to be greeted by the 
startled kammerfiiddchen with a timid in- 
quiry as to whether the "Hochgeboren nicht 
schlafen kann," her simple, natural view 
being, no doubt, that night was made for 
sleep, without reference to the wonders of 
the universe. 

n3o3 




OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 



X 



Y balcony opens from what is said 
to have been in monastic days the 
abbot's room, but which for the 
moment might, with an apology to Shake- 
speare, be called "Friar Laurence's cell." 
The building is very old, though giving lit- 
tle sign of age. It is simple, and with mas- 
sive walls, not by any means as picturesque 
as might be expected, and the cells of the 
monks make comfortable bedrooms. Curi- 
ously, there are no stairs to connect the 
first and second stories of the old structure ; 
the second story can be reached from the 
first only by going out of the old building 
and through a wing of more recent con- 
struction. 

What the arrangement may formerly 
have been it is difficult to say. But the ab- 
sence of stairs was perplexing, until one 
day, inquiring why the iron gratings at the 
windows of the ground floor, I was told 

[31] 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

that not only monks, but at one time, long 
ago, a sisterhood of nuns abided here, and 
it soon occurred to the mind that the ab- 
sence of stairs, making approach difficult, 
may have served the useful purpose of 
guarding the pious brethren against being 
disturbed in their meditations. Perhaps a 
wise precaution, 

"If ancient tales say true, 

nor wrong those holy men." 

But now, alas ! the curse of improvement 
threatens the spot. There is talk (and may 
it be only talk!) of pulling the old build- 
ing down to make way for a modern 
structure. The hard-boiled shirt and the 
gorgeous lady have already appeared, trav- 
eling, as usual, hand in hand. The propri- 
etor may find it necessary to yield to the 
demand, and the old hospice may have to 
go. For, come what may, the American 
visitor must have his bath. And this re- 
calls a story told a few years ago of the 
manager of a hotel at one of the German 
seaports. A shipload of Americans ar- 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

rived one afternoon in the height of sum- 
mer, and one after another demanded ''Zim- 
mer mit Bad— Zimmer mit Bad." In a 
few minutes every room with a bath was 
taken, but the cry continued. The manager 
was in despair, which soon changed to in- 
dignation, and presently he exclaimed sa- 
tirically, "Wir miissen nachstes Jahr fiir 
diese Amerikaner ein Aquarium haben !" 

Must it not often seem to the Continental 
mind that American and English people 
would find their greatest enjoyment in 
swimming about the livelong day in a tank, 
like a company of seals ! 



XI 



Ifter weeks amid these mountains, 
which grow more lovely all the 
time, the day for departure 
comes; and this time the journey is made 
up the hill to Carlo Magno, then down 
through rows of stately pines to Dimaro, 
passing the turn which leads by the Tonale 

n333 




OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

Pass into Italy a few short miles away, 
and on over the broad, fertile table-land, en- 
closed on both sides by glorious mountains, 
to Male and toward the Mendel Alp. 

The day is filled with fresh delights. The 
great distant hills lend grandeur. Near at 
hand the fields are vividly green, in mosaics 
of many shades. Little campanili rise here 
and there, and the landscape seems Italian 
in all its features. 

At times great chasms appear, with rush- 
ing streams, far below, of a curiously 
opaque blue, dashed with foam of purest 
white. Vineyards are terraced far above 
and far below the road, which often takes 
unexpected turns, and brings new prospects 
into view, both near and distant. There are 
journeys in the Tyrol which are more 
grand, others more striking. The drive 
from Campiglio to Riva by Condino and 
the Ponale Strasse, or that from Toblach 
to Cortina, can hardly be surpassed; yet it 
may be doubted whether a day's journey 
can anywhere be found more satisfying to 

[34] 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

the eye than that from Campiglio to the 
Mendel Alp on a fine day in the early 
•autumn. 

But do not go in an automobile, I pray. 
No one ever in reality saw anything from 
an automobile. The ideal way to enjoy the 
scenery would be to cast time to the winds 
and go in an ox-cart. Take a pair of sleek, 
patient, fawn-colored oxen, put garlands 
about their horns if you like, throw a mat- 
tress or two upon the rough cart, with a 
few pillows and rugs, and go like a king in 
state ! 

But if you are merely commonplace, and 
cannot rise to so great a height, go in 
a carriage— never in an automobile; and 
whatever your vehicle, buy a trumpet, of 
the sort used by motorists in this country, 
and sound it loudly at every curve, that the 
fiend rushing from the opposite direction 
may take you for one of his kind, and be 
disposed to give you a little better chance 
for your life ! 

If only a day is taken for the drive, in the 

[35] 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

afternoon the gradual ascent of the Mendel 
is made, over a broad, easy road, and the 
journey ends at the summit, where the night 
is to be spent, before leaving the glorious 
Mountain Land and going the next morn- 
ing by the cable railway down to the plain 
at Botzen, quaint little city of the Middle 
Ages, thence, an hour's journey, through a 
land flowing with milk and honey, indescrib- 
ably rich in vineyards and orchards, to eat 
the grapes at Meran. 



XII 



JELiGHTFUL Tyrol ! much too beauti- 
ful for words, and whose people 
are not yet wholly spoiled by con- 
tact with the outer world. As we journey 
through your mountains or across your val- 
leys, many little villages appear, some of 
them incredibly small, each perched almost 
inaccessibly upon its rock, and seemingly 
cut off from other habitations of men. 

[36] 




OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 

There the women, as they have done for 
uncounted generations, give their lives to 
homely duties, drawing water from the vil- 
lage well in copper vessels, long used by 
their mothers in bygone times ; and the men 
labor in the fields and in the woods, as 
their fathers have done from the beginning. 

In these eyries, remote as the nests of the 
eagles, people are born, and live and die, 
without ever leaving their native confines. 
Each little hamlet is a sphere sufficient to 
itself, and contact with the outer world is 
hardly known, save when some young man 
returns from his military service to tell, or 
try to tell, in uncouth style what he has 
seen. 

So small, so self-centred, yet so complete 
in themselves are these very tiny communi- 
ties as almost to suggest a comparison with 
drops of water, peopled perchance with busy 
microscopic creatures sentient as ourselves, 
each deeming its own concerns of univer- 
sal consequence, and neither knowing nor 
caring for aught beyond. 

[373 



OUR LADY OF THE FIELDS 



XIII 




ND now farewell, for a time at 
least, to Campiglio, its delicious 
air, its soft sunshine, its lovely 
mountains and its happy valley. And, 
friend (and these pages, to while away a 
summer hour, are written only to and for 
friends), if ever in the pilgrimage your 
steps should turn, as mine have often done, 
to this land of great delight, and to the 
place about which I have written, try while 
here to forget your cares, yield something 
to the kindly aspect of the spot, and remem- 
ber that neither grandeur nor beauty, but 
peace, repose, tranquillity, make the real 
charm of Madonna di Campiglio, Our Lady 
of the Fields. 




BITS 



•TJ^ 



Afoot and light-hearted I take to the 

open road, 
Healthy, free, the world before me, 
The long brown path before me leading 

wherever I choose. 

Walt Whitman 



PREFACE 

{Does anybody ever read a preface?) 

OST books begin at the beginning, 
which is silly, for any book can 
do that. 

A book might be made to begin at the 
end, but that would only turn things upside 
down. 

Another way would be to begin in the 
middle; but then it would be perplexing to 
know whether to go forward or back. 

So this book begins nowhere in particu- 
lar, which is much the best of all. 




BITS 

Jays Paul, in his First Epistle to the 
Corinthians:— "I have fought with 
beasts at Ephesus." 
/ have fought with their descendants all 
over Italy. 

• * 





NE very wet and dismal day at Baden 
Baden, I asked the porter at the 
hotel, "Porter, what do people do 
here on a wet day like this?" 

He replied, "Well, sir, they annoy them- 
selves." 

Every one knows the effect of bad 
weather when traveling about and trying to 
see and do things, and it seemed to me that, 
consciously or unconsciously, the porter had 

[43] 






BITS 

described the state of mind at such times so 
perfectly that what he said should not be 
lost. 

• • 
• 

T was in the Square in the quaint 
little city of Trient, Italian in 
everything except political alle- 
giance. Some poor little girls, ragged and 
unwashed, yet very happy and very pretty, 
were dancing under the electric light, to 
the music of a song which they sang, an air 
which I finally recognized as a curious mi- 
nor variation of the old "Santa Lucia," fa- 
miliar for so many years. 

The dance over, two or three of them, 
standing near me, began to recite little 
prayers, first crossing themselves, then 
holding their hands in an attitude of devo- 
tion. The effect was touching, and when 
they stopped I produced some hellers (the 
heller is about one fifth of a cent), and 
gave them to the nearest child, who seemed 

1:44:1 



BITS 

an embodiment of grace. In her eagerness 
she dropped them, and they disappeared in 
the sand. In a despairing tone she cried, 
"Trovate! Trovate !" ("Find! Find!") All 
joined in a search, which was unavailing, 
and consternation reigned. But more hel- 
lers were found, and happiness was re- 
stored. 

• 

• 

GST people who go abroad, espe- 
cially into the byways, have been 
warned that their letters should 
never bear the word "Esquire," as it is 
likely to be taken for the name, with the 
result that the letter will be placed in the 
"E" box, and be seen no more. 

An instance a little in point came under 
my observation recently in South Austria. 
The proprietor of a hotel, wishing to pro- 
vide a library for his English-speaking 
guests, had bought a large number of vol- 
umes of the paper-covered Tauchnitz edi- 

1:453 




BITS 

tion, and had evidently given them to a 
local binder to be bound in cloth, with the 
name of the book and the name of the au- 
thor upon the back of each. I found my- 
self looking at some volumes, the names 
upon which— "Windsor Castle," "The Con- 
stable of the Tower," and so on— seemed 
very familiar, but the name of the author 
was given simply as "Esquire." Opening 
one of the books, the title-page gave the 
explanation. The books were by "W. Har- 
rison Ainsworth, Esquire." The Austrian 
binder had taken the last word for the name 
of the author, and had placed it upon the 
back of every volume of the set ! 



• 

• 




HAT strange coincidence or process 
of the mind has led two great 
peoples, far apart, and whose in- 
stitutions and ideas differ widely, to adopt 
the same symbol to characterize that which 

1462 



BITS 

they value— and indeed reverence— more 
highly than any other earthly thing? In 
Austria the sign is "K K," and you see it 
upon all sides. It means "Kaiserlich und 
Koniglich" (Imperial and Royal). You 
can never escape it. If you ride upon a 
railway, or buy a cigar, or send your clothes 
to a laundry, it is always under this mystic 
symbol, and "K K" is everywhere. 

In America, though not so prominently 
displayed before the eye, whatsoever is im- 
perial or royal, whatsoever upon earth is 
thought worthy of reverence or homage, is 
represented by and concentrated in the 
same kingly token,— signifying, in our 
country— no American need be reminded 
what ! * 

• • 
• 

* Trying this jest, if such it be, upon a foreign friend 
of brilliant intellect and distinguished in the service of his 
country, he was disposed to regard it as a mathematical 
problem, and was ready to attack it with pencil and paper. 
Seemingly he was unacquainted with the high place 
occupied by the "cold cash " in the American esteem. 

[47] 




BITS 

j|HEN you listen to Wagner's music 
or hear the story of Siegfried, 
accept the legend, but do not take 
it too seriously. Undoubtedly Siegfried did 
bathe in the blood of the dragon, until he 
became, or thought he became, invulnerable 
or immortal. 

I have done it myself, both in years long 
gone by, and again more lately. And you 
may do the same if only the vintage lasts. 

The Drachenblut, (blood of the dragon) 
is a pink champagne, rather like a spark- 
ling Burgundy, which grows in small quan- 
tity only upon the mountain, the Drachen- 
fels, which is the scene of the legend, and 
where the cave of the dragon is still shown. 
Any one who will drink enough of it will 
become as invulnerable as Siegfried. 

I well remember the way in which the 
young wife of the innkeeper of the days of 
long ago replied to my question, whether 
some of this delicious little vintage could 
not be sent to America. It was too delicate 

1:483 




BITS 

to bear transportation across the sea. To 
tell me this, she said, "Ah, it would break 
its heart to go away from home !" 

• 

• 

'/ERY one knows the two lines with 
which Byron begins the last canto 
of his "Childe Harold,"- 

"I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs ; 
A palace and a prison on each hand." 

If ever any lines were hackneyed and done 
to death, these have been; they make a 
pretty, musical jingle, nothing more. The 
next two lines are finer ; but in those which 
come after, lines which nobody ever quotes, 
and which seem to have passed compara- 
tively without notice,— 

"A thousand j^ears their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
O'er the far times,"— 

Byron fell completely under the influence 
of the beautiful, pathetic place. He de- 



BITS 

picted at a stroke its mystical charm, and 
his genius found one of its noblest expres- 
sions. 

Whenever I am in Venice, this fine figure 
of speech is constantly in my mind, and I 
seem to feel the beating of the cloudy wings 
and see in all about me the plaintive smile 
of the dying glory.* 

• 

• 

HE Venetian guide is a patrician; 
he will not go out at night, and 
rambling about the place after 
dark, I have been forced to go alone, which 

*Here is the entire stanza : 

" I stood in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs; 
A palace and a prison on each hand : 
I saw from out the wave her structures rise 
As from the stroke of the enchanter' s wand : 
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand 
Around me, and a dying glory smiles 
O'er the far times, when many a subject land 
Look'd to the winged Lion's marble piles. 
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles! ' ' 

n5°n 




BITS 

is neither safe nor wise, or to take such 
man as I could get. 

Thus one evening I went forth with noth- 
ing to do, and a guide who spoke no Eng- 
lish, only Italian and some German. The 
gondola stopped for a moment at a little 
quay, and the man spoke to a group of 
girls. I asked, "Who are the young ladies?" 
He replied, "My sister and her friends." I 
asked, "Would they like to go for a ride?" 
Indeed they would— and without more ado 
the entire party, four or five young Vene- 
tian girls, tripped into the gondola and sa- 
luted me affably. We went to the Lido, 
three quarters of an hour away. My com- 
panions chattered all the time, and on arriv- 
ing we all went on shore. Places of enter- 
tainment were close by, and this led to the 
question, "Will the young ladies have some 
refreshments?" Assuredly. And what 
would they like? What do you suppose? 
Not ice-cream. Miss American Girl; not 
cake or soda-water or lemonade. They 
wanted a real treat, something to which 

[51] 



BITS 

they were not accustomed, and the cry went 
up with one acclaim, "Carne ! Carne !" — 
meaning flesh — meat. By the bright light 
indoors I saw them clearly for the first 
time. All were girls of the working class, 
poorly dressed but scrupulously clean, and 
wearing, as characteristic of their station, 
a mantilla, or little black shawl, over the 
head. Meat was brought in abundance; 
they were invited to partake. I stood and 
watched while these poor girls satisfied 
their hunger; and from the ravenous way 
in which they ate, I felt sure that not one of 
them had ever before had all the meat her 
appetite craved. 

The repast over, we returned to Venice. 
On the way back they sang for my delecta- 
tion, in a tongue to me unknown, a song of 
which the refrain, as they rendered it, was 
"Beely weely wink"; and I really think they 
thought that they were singing in English. 

We followed a serenade up the Grand 
Canal for a short distance, and at the little 

152-2 



BITS 

quay I received their thanks and we parted, 
they perhaps to reflect upon their wonderful 
banquet, and I to think of the glimpse I had 
had of Venetian life among the poorer 
class. 




• 

• -A- 
• 



oiNG one hot morning into the din- 
ing-room of the hotel at Venice, 
I was more than usually im- 
pressed with the need for ventilation. You 
know that many Europeans entertain the 
view that fresh air is deadly poison. One 
side of the room opened upon one of the 
little three-foot alleys which in Venice pass 
as streets; the windows were protected by 
iron bars and tightly closed. I asked the 
head waiter why he did not open them. He 
answered in a melancholy tone, "Ah, you 
can never tell what they will t'row in; it 

1:533 






BITS 

was last week a ca.t—morto/' What 
waste ! A perfectly good cat, only it was 

dead. 

• 
• • 

T was in Rome. We were at the 
Palazzo Spada, to see what is 
really a remarkable perspective 
effect in the painting of some columns, and 
we passed into a room with red hangings 
all about, seats arranged in semicircles, and 
having the general appearance of some sort 
of legislative chamber; in fact, I believe it 
is, or was, used for the meetings of a 
branch of the municipal government. 

The young lady was in advance, listening 
to the explanations of our guide, an archae- 
ologist of some repute. I was occupied 
with my own thoughts. What he said 
sounded as though a long way off, and made 
little impression on me. He talked about a 
statue in the room — you know statues are 
everywhere in Rome; and suddenly one of 

[54] 



BITS 

the most curious sensations I ever experi- 
enced came over me, as it filtered through 
my mind, partly from what the guide was 
saying, which I dimly heard, and partly 
through some subconscious mental process 
of my own, that I was in the presence of 
Pompey's statue, the very statue at whose 
foot Julius Csesar was murdered some nine- 
teen hundred years ago ! Not often have I 
been so moved. The room, with its red 
hangings and its benches, lent itself well to 
the idea of a senate-house. It needed no 
very vivid imagination to conjure up the 
great central figure in the tragedy; the 
group of relentless, murderous conspirators 
doing him to death, and the startled sena- 
tors huddled about the room. Shakespeare's 
lines, without being bidden, forced them- 
selves upon the mind : 

". . . then burst his mighty heart ; 
And, in his mantle muffling up his face. 
Even at the base of Pompey's statue, 
Which all the while ran blood, great Csesar 
fell." 

[55] 



BITS 

I saw the tragedy a thousandfold more 
clearly than I had ever seen it enacted in 
early days, when Booth and Barrett were 
upon the mimic stage; and so real was the 
impression that it absorbed me for hours, 
almost days. 

It cannot certainly be said that this is 
really the figure at whose base Caesar died; 
though probably it is. It seems certain, 
though very curious, that it is the only 
statue of Pompey in all Rome. The French 
used it in the production of Voltaire's trag- 
edy of "Brutus" in the Coliseum at the end 
of the eighteenth century, taking off one of 
the arms, and subsequently replacing it, 
that the figure might more conveniently be 
moved. 

Byron, writing a hundred years ago, ac- 
cepted it as authentic, saying, -; 

"And thou, dread statue, art existent in 
The austerest form of naked majesty." 

Baedeker treats it with a mark of interro- 
gation. Gibbon (Chapter LXXI) tells the 

1:56] 



BITS 

story of its being discovered lying upon the 
border-line which separated the land of two 
adjoining proprietors, the head upon the 
land of one man, the body upon that of the 
other, and of a lawsuit to decide its owner- 
ship, with the result that the head was 
awarded to one owner and the body to his 
adversary. To save the figure from mutila- 
tion, the Pope, Julius III, at the instance of 
Cardinal Capo di Ferro, bought the rights 
of both proprietors, and presented the 
statue to the cardinal who had interceded 
for its preservation. 

Parts of several days spent in the library 
of the Vatican, with competent assistance, 
delving among books and manuscripts which 
I could not read, carried me no further 
back than to the earlier writers referred 
to by Gibbon, and in a copious note to 
Byron; and it seems safe to say that the 
statue has no ascertainable history anterior 
to the time of Pope Julius III, who reigned 
in the middle of the sixteenth century. But 
the manner in which this figure, of heroic 

1:573 



BITS 

size, was found amid the rubbish of old 
Rome, and the fact that it is the only statue 
of Pompey in all that city, where statues 
are so many, certainly lend probability to 
the belief that this is indeed the identical 
figure at whose base was enacted the "lofty 
scene" which, in the words put by Shake- 
speare into the mouth of Casca, has so 
many times since been 

"acted o'er 
In states unborn, and accents yet unknown!" 



• 

• • 

• 




GAIN in Rome. The Socialists, for 
no definite reason, but as a mani- 
festation of power, had planned a 
round of events extending over a week, and 
somewhat in this wise: On Monday, they 

CSS] 



BITS 

said, no bread shall be baked in Verona ; on 
Tuesday, not a gondola shall move in Ven- 
ice; on Wednesday, nothing shall go on 
wheels in Rome, and so on through the 
week. 

It was our last day in the Eternal City. 
We especially wanted to go once more to 
St. Peter's, the greatest and most glorious 
church in all the world. The driver who 
had been taking us about promised faith- 
fully to come, but, doubtless influenced by 
the prospect of a broken head, failed to ap- 
pear. Not a vehicle could be had. We 
started on foot, but the way was long, and 
the heat of the sun, although it was at the 
beginning of October, was pitiless. After 
going some distance, a butcher's cart ap- 
peared, drawn by a large donkey, driven by 
a boy. We said to our guide, "Hire that," 
to which he replied, "Oh, no ; you cannot go 
in that." We personally took up the ne- 
gotiation, and the boy, undismayed by 
thoughts of the Socialists, agreed to take 
us to St. Peter's. But he was faithful to 



BITS 

his employer, and in the cart were several 
pieces of meat. He would deliver those 
and then return for us. We knew that, 
once out of our sight, we should never see 
him again, so there was nothing for it but 
to get into the cart and go with him upon 
his errands. We invited the guide to get in 
with us. He refused scornfully, and with 
indignation in every tone. So he went in 
advance, and awaited us. We assisted in 
delivering the meat to the descendants of 
the Caesars, and arrived in time at our 
destination. The guide so far unbent as 
to take our photograph in the vehicle, with 
the great church as a background, and it is 
safe to say that this is the only case of an 
American girl going in state to St. Peter's 
in a butcher's cart drawn by a donkey. 

The next day, at Naples, the Socialists 
were pursuing their amiable programme 
with some other diversion, the soldiers were 
charging upon the mob in the street next 
our hotel, and Vesuvius, as though to show 
its sympathy with these activities, was be- 

1:603 



BITS 

ginning one of the most important erup- 
tions in modern times. 



• • 

• 




HE recent visit to this country of a 
beautiful vessel, used principally 
for deep-sea exploration, but fit- 
ted with much scientific apparatus and hav- 
ing among its wonders a means by which 
musical sounds are said to be transmitted 
for great distances, brought back to the 
memory some long-forgotten lines of Sir 
Walter Scott, who wrote in "The Lay of 
the Last Minstrel" about a famous sorcerer 
of the same surname, reputed to have lived 
some centuries before, that he was 



"A wizard of such dreaded fame, 
That when in Salamanca's cave 
Him listed his magic wand to wave, 
The bells would ring in Notre Dame !" 

Canto II, 13. 



BITS 

It may be wondered what Scott had in 
mind. What may he have heard, or read? 
What may have started the train of ideas 
which found expression in these lines ? Per- 
haps they were evolved from nothing — 
right out of his imagination. Perhaps 
Scott may have been influenced by tales 
transmitted from mouth to mouth through 
unknown generations, much as Macpher- 
son's "Ossian" is said to have been pre- 
served. 

When Scott wrote the "Lay," a little 
more than a hundred years ago, the things 
he ascribed to Michael Scott could only 
have been thought of as rank absurdities, 
utter impossibilities, the work of a poet's 
fancy. 

A few score years previously, not only 
would such things have been considered 
sheer necromancy, but any one attempting 
to practise them would have received the 
punishment due to a professor of the black 
art. 

Even when Scott wrote this poem, elec- 

1:623 



BITS 

tricity was scarcely known. Electrical sci- 
ence had no existence for practical pur- 
poses, and it had had none in any times that 
we know about. 

But now, when Walter Scott has been 
dead but eighty years, a man touches a 
button, and a fair is opened or an explo- 
sion is caused, hundreds of miles away; 
and in this day of long-distance telephones, 
wireless telegraphy, and musical sounds sent 
for miles through the air without visible 
apparatus connecting the sender and the 
listener, the ringing of the bells of Notre 
Dame by one at Salamanca might easily be 
accomplished. 

The apparent impossibilities ascribed by 
the poet to the wizard in the quoted lines 
and in their context are every-day occur- 
rences, and we are led to wonder whether 
our recently discovered marvels are now in 
use in the world for the first time, or 
whether there may not have been some ad- 
mixture of fact with the poet's fancy; 
whether there may not have come down to 

[633 



BITS 

him some trace or thought or tradition of 
devices once used, but long lost and for- 
gotten. 

The student of history must often pause 
and wonder, not at the extent of our know- 
ledge, but that we know so little of the past 
history of man. 

The oldest historic event of which there 
is even a tolerably authentic record oc- 
curred but a very few thousand years ago, 
a minute fraction of the time during which 
man has been upon the earth. All the rest 
is lost. The few things we know about the 
distant past stand out like little islands in 
the vast sea of our want of knowledge. 
May not things seemingly purely fanciful, 
such as those conjured up by Scott for the 
purposes of his poem, have had some re- 
mote foundation in reality? Is there any- 
thing new under the sun ? 

How little we know ! For example, to go 
back only two or three thousand years, read 
a verse in one of the least important books 
of the Old Testament, and you will find 

1:643 



BITS 

yourself wondering whether there may not 
have been automobiles in ancient Nineveh.* 



• 

• • 
• 






THOUGHT I caught a glimpse of 
Infinity. I lay upon a beach in 
Florida. Minute grains of sand 
forced their way into my garments, my pock- 
ets, my ears, into the works of my watch. I 
picked up a handful. There were many 
thousands, each capable of subdivision into 
its particles, its atoms. I looked, and for 
miles, as far as the eye could reach, there 
was an expanse of the same sand, the same 
grains. I knew that the beach, of the same 
formation, extended for hundreds of miles. 



*The chariots shall rage in the streets, they shall 
justle one against another in the broad ways : they shall 
seem like torches, they shall run like the lightnings. 
Nahum ii, 4. 

C65] 



BITS 

Here, then, in every single mile— yes, in 
every foot — w^as infinite number. The grains 
in a handful could scarcely be counted. For 
the aggregate of those upon the shore we 
have no thought or expression which could 
depict their number, even in the faintest 
way. It would be hopeless to try, for their 
number is such as we cannot comprehend. 
We can see them, but can neither count nor 
understand them. They would be innu- 
merable times as many as the number of all 
the men who have ever lived or ever will 
live upon the earth. 

And I said to myself, "Here is infinity of 
number; we can see, though not describe 
it." And my thoughts turned to the bodies 
of the universe: far more than a million 
known stars, with others being constantly 
added to those which are known. Yet here, 
in a little corner of one of the least of 
these, was number beyond our ability to 
comprehend. 

And I thought, How inconceivably vast 




BITS 

is the Creation, how tiny and incapable of 
comprehending it is man ! 
Well, what then ? 



• 

• • 



ND here is a little credo, written by 
me, an atom lately called out of 
space, and soon to go back into it. 



All the great things of life are 
mine: the sun, the sky, the stars, 
the trees; the running waters, and 
the winds that blow. 

I have friendships, even affec- 
tions. 

But as to the little things, the 
trifles for which men and women 
wear out their lives and hearts and 
souls,— money to waste, a great es- 
tate, a fine mansion, large posses- 

1:673 



BITS 

sions,— these I have not, nor do I 
covet them. 



* 

• 




MAN past the age of sixty may be 
Hkened to one who stands at the 
North Pole. At the pole there is 
no north, no east, no west ; only south. And 
so with the man of sixty, there is but one 
direction— downward. 

The things he has not achieved then, he 
is not likely to accomplish afterward. His 
failures and his successes alike seem trivial. 
Increasingly he values quiet and repose. 
And his growing wish is that the Lord, in 
the words of old John Evelyn, will grant 
him "a comfortable departure." 



C^ 



"Life is sweet, brother." 

' ' Do you think so ? " 

"Think so ! — There 's night and day, brother, both 
sweet things; sun, moon, and stars, brother, all 
sweet things ; there 's likewise a wind on the heath. 
Life is very sweet, brother; who would wish to die?" 



"In sickness, Jasper?" 
"There's the sun and stars, brother." 
"In blindness, Jasper?" 

"There's the wind on the heath, brother; if I 
could only feel that, I would gladly live forever." 
George Borrow, "Lavengro." 



DEC 20 1913 




LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



020 315 164 



